Heritage and Exile (116 page)

I knelt again, turning her over, catching her up in my arms, uncaring; but she was still, unmoving, already cold. And now I knew. . . .

Generations ago, a powerful Keeper, of the Hastur line, had held all the power of the Comyn . . . and as she grew older, had been reluctant to set aside her power; and so she had concentrated power in the Aillard line, and many of those women had been her under-Keepers, giving their own powers to Ashara, so that Ashara, whose flesh had failed and who lived now within the matrix, went abroad in the body and personality, like a garment, of her newest Keeper . . . and of these, my young kinswoman had been the last. I had wondered why I could never touch her mind, nor come near, except now and again for a moment. . . .

And again the terrifying question from the overworld seemed to beat in my heart;
the Love of Power or the Power of Love?

Otherwise, would that ancient Hastur sorceress have risked the end of her undying mind and all her power, to risk all for my freedom from Sharra's bondage? Regis and I, alone, could never have faced that last undying blaze of Sharra's fire. But with Callina recklessly throwing all of Ashara's powers into the fray, through the body of the young Hastur who was her far kinsman, so that the strength of the first Hastur, whoever and whatever He was, manifested itself through the Sword of Aldones . . . so that Regis took on the majesty and power of the Son of Light, even as the one who held Sharra took on the Form of Fire . . .

Dyan, too, in the end, had not been able to strike with Sharra to wipe out his kin. All his life he had fought for the honor of the Comyn, though in strange ways, and in the end he had acted first to protect my daughter, then to protect me, and finally he could not strike down Regis . . .

The Love of Power or the Power of Love?
I wonder if that question had beat in his mind, too, during the final moments of that battle?

Somewhere above me in the castle, I heard a sound, not with my physical ears, but in the recesses of my mind; cleared now from the searing presence of Sharra, I was conscious of it all through me; the sound of a child crying, a telepath child, alone, hungry, frightened, wailing for her mother who was dead and the father she half feared, half loved. And I knew where she was. I saw Regis, his shoulders bowed beneath his new and terrible burden, his hair incredibly turned white in that all-consuming battle, and saw him turn wearily toward the Castle. Had his grandfather survived that battle which must have rung in the minds of all the Comyn?

Regis heard the crying too, and turned to me, with a weary smile.

“Go and look after your daughter, Lew; she needs you, and—” unbelievably he smiled again, “she's old enough to have the Gift but not old enough to hold it within reasonable bounds. Unless you go and comfort her, she'll drive everyone in the Castle—everyone in the City—mad with her wailing!”

And I went in and ran unerringly up the stairs to the one place where Dyan had known I would not search for Marja and where she would be safely concealed; the Ridenow apartments which Lerrys and Dio had shared. And as I burst in through the great outer doors, hurrying to the empty room, I saw Dio holding Marja on her lap, but she could not silence her wailing and struggling until I bent over them and clasped them both in my arms.

Marja stopped crying and turned to me, the telepathic shrieking suddenly quieted, only soft hiccuping sobs remaining as she clung to me, sobbing. “Father! Father! I was so scared, and you didn't come and you didn't come and I was all alone, all alone and there was a fire, and I cried and cried and nobody heard me except this strange lady came and tried to pick me up . . .”

I quieted the hysterical outburst, pulling her to me.

“It's all right,
chiya,
” I crooned, holding her in one arm and Dio in the other. “It's all right, Father's here—” I could not give Dio a child of her own. but this child of my own blood had somehow survived out of all the holocaust that had raged in the Comyn . . . and never again would I mock at the power of love which had saved us both. I had wanted to die; but I was alive, and miraculously, beyond all, I was glad to be alive and life was good to me.

Laughing, I set Marja down, drawing Dio into my arms again. Never once did she ask a question about Callina. Perhaps she knew, perhaps she had been a part of all that great battle which, even now, I was beginning to doubt—had it ever happened except in my own mind? I never knew.

“We have just time,” I said, “to file a stop on that Terran divorce action. I think it hasn't been ten days yet—or have I lost track of the time?”

She laughed, a wavering smile. “Ten days? No, not quite.”

Marja interrupted us, setting up her telepathic demand again.
I'm hungry! And scared! Stop kissing her and hold me!

Dio drew her close between us. “We'll get you a big breakfast right away,
chiya,
” she said softly, “and then someone will have to try teaching you the elementary manners of living in a telepathic family. If you are going to do that every time I kiss your father—or anything else, little daughter—I am afraid that I will start making noises like a wicked stepmother from the old fairy tales! So you will have to learn some manners, first thing!”

Incredibly, that made all three of us laugh. And then we went back to the Terran Zone to withdraw an unnecessary divorce decree. Somewhere along the way—I forget just where—we stopped and ate fresh hot bread and porridge at a cookstall, and everyone who looked at us took it for granted that I was out for an early breakfast with my wife and daughter. And I found I liked the feeling. I no longer felt them staring only at my scars.

Marja held on to my hand and Dio's as we went into the Terran Zone. I looked back, just once, at the Comyn Castle which lay behind us.

I knew I would never go back.

But I did go back, just once more. It was only a few days later, but Marja had already begun to call Dio “Mother.”

“Crowned King? King of
what?
” Regis said, shaking his head gently at his grandfather. “Sir, with all respect, the Comyn effectively do not exist. Lew Alton survives, but he does not wish to remain at Armida—and I cannot see any reason why he should. The Ridenow have already bowed to the inevitable, and applied for their status as Terran citizens. Dyan is dead—and his son is a child three years old. The Lady of Aillard is dead, and so is her sister; no one remains among the Aillard but Merryl . . . and his twin sister, who is the mother of Dyan's son. The Elhalyn are gone . . . do you still think we must treat the Terrans as enemies, sir? I think it is time to accept that we are what they say—one of their lost colonies—and apply for protected status, to keep our world as it should be . . . immune to being overrun by Empire technology, but still part of the Empire.”

Danvan Hastur bowed his head. He said, “I knew it would come to this in the end. What is it that you want to do, Regis?”

With that new and terrible sensitivity, Regis knew what his grandfather was feeling, and so his voice was very gentle as he spoke to the old man.

“I have asked Lawton to come and see you, sir. Remember he is blood kin to the Ardais and to the Syrtis, sir; he might have been among the Comyn.”

Dan Lawton came into the room, and to Regis's surprise he bowed deeply and knelt before Danvan Hastur.

“Z'par servu, vai dom,
” he said quietly.

“What mockery is this?” demanded Hastur.

“Sir, no mockery,” said Lawton without rising. “I am here to serve you in any way I can, Lord Hastur, to be certain that your ancient ways will not suffer.”

“I thought we were now no more than a Terran colony . . .”

“I do not think you understand what it is to be an Empire world,
vai dom,
” said Lawton quietly. “It means that you have the right to define what Darkover will become; you who inhabit Darkover alone. You may share or not share your own fields of learning—though I hope we will be allowed to know something of matrix technology, so that nothing like this Sharra episode may ever arise again without our knowledge. You and you alone—you people of Darkover, I mean, not you personally, with all respect, sir—may determine how many Terrans and on what terms may be employed here or may settle here. And because your interests must be protected in the Federation of worlds that is the Empire, you have the right to appoint, or to elect, a representative in the Empire's Senate.”

“A fine thought,” said Danvan Hastur wearily, “but who is left that we could trust, after all the deaths in the Comyn? Do you think I am going to appoint that scamp Lerrys Ridenow, just because he knows Empire ways?”

“I would gladly serve you myself,” said Lawton, “because I love my home world—it is my home world as well as yours, Lord Hastur, even though I have chosen to live as a Terran; I too was born beneath the Bloody Sun, and there is Comyn blood in my veins. But I think my task is here, so that there may be a Darkovan voice in the Terran Trade City. Regis has found a candidate, however.”

He gestured to the door, and Lew Alton came in.

His scarred face looked calm now, without the tension and torment which had inhabited it for so long; Regis, looking at him, thought:
here is a man who has laid his ghosts. Would that I could lay mine!
Within him the memory blurred,
a time when he had been more than human, reaching from the center of the world to the sky, wielding monstrous power
. . . and now he was no more than human again and he felt small, powerless, shut up inside a single mind and skull . . .

“A man who knows Darkover and Terra alike,” said Regis quietly, “Lewis-Kennard Montray-Alton of Armida, first Representative to the Imperial Senate from Cottman Four, known as Darkover.” And Lew came and bowed before Lord Hastur.

“By your leave, sir, I am going out on the ship which takes to the stars at sunset, with my wife and daughter. I will gladly serve for a term, after which you will be able to educate the people of Darkover to choose their own representatives. . .”

Danvan Hastur held out his hand. He said, “I would gladly have seen your father in this post,
Dom
Lewis. The people of Darkover—and I myself—have cause to be grateful to the Altons.”

Lew bowed and said, “I hope I may serve you well,” and Hastur said, “All the Gods bless you and speed you on your way.”

Regis left his grandfather talking with Lawton—he was sure a time would come when they would like and respect one another, if not yet—and went out into the anteroom with Lew. He took him into a kinsman's embrace. “Will you come back when your term is over, Lew? We need you on Darkover—”

A momentary look of pain crossed Lew's face, but he said, “I don't think so. Out there—on the edge of the Empire—there are new worlds. I—I can't look back.”

Regis wanted to cry out, “Why should you go into exile again?” But he swallowed hard and bent his head, then raised it, after a moment, and said, “So be it,
bredu.
And wherever you go, the Gods go with you.
Adelandeyo.”

He knew he would never see Lew again, and his whole heart went after him as he went out of the room.
The Empire is his, and a thousand million worlds beyond worlds.

And that was enough. Almost.

As the red sun was setting behind the high pass, Regis stood with Danilo on a balcony overlooking the Terran Zone, watching as the great Terran ship skylifted, bound outward to the stars.
Where I can never go. And he takes with him the last of my dreams of freedom, and of power. . . .

And suddenly he knew that he did not really envy Lew. No woman had ever loved him as Lew had been loved, no. But Dyan had left, in his death, a shining legacy of another kind of love; something he had heard, and only half remembered from his years in St. Valentine-of-the-Snows, returned suddenly to his mind.

“Dani, what is that thing the
cristoforos
say . . . greater love hath none. . . .”

Danilo returned, in the most ancient dialect of
casta,
the one they had spoken at the monastery:

“Greater love no man knoweth than he who will lay down his life for his fellow.”

Dyan had laid his life down for them all, and in his death, Regis had come to a new understanding; love was love, no matter whence it came or in what form. Some day he might love a woman in this way; but if that day never came, he would accept the love that was his without shame or regret.

“I will not be King,” he said, “I am Hastur; that is enough.” An echo stirred in his mind, a memory that would never wholly surface.

Hastur
. . . it was gone, like a stilled ripple in the Lake. He said, “I'm going to need a lot of—a lot of help, Dani.”

And Danilo said, still in the most ancient dialect of Nevarsin, “Regis Hastur, I am your paxman, even to life or death.”

Regis wiped his face . . . the evening fog was condensing into the first drops of rain, but it felt hot on his eyes. “Come,” he said, “my grandfather must not be left too long alone, and we must take counsel how to educate our sons—Mikhail, and Dyan's little son. We can't stand here all night.”